


Of Monsters and Sadists

by shulamithbond



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Bondage, Consensual Kink, Depression, Dom/sub, Dominance, F/M, Femdom, Fluff and Smut, Fluff without Plot, Light BDSM, Loki Angst, Loki you little shit, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Romance, Self-Harm, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-29
Updated: 2014-02-02
Packaged: 2017-12-25 00:12:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/946360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shulamithbond/pseuds/shulamithbond
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Originally written as submissions for naughtylokiconfessions.tumblr.com. I thought I might as well put them up here, too. My first time posting actual porn-type content, so please be gentle with me.</p><p>(Obviously I don't own Loki, Asgard, SHIELD, or anything else mentioned in this fic except maybe my OC.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Speed Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for a naughtylokiconfessions prompt about Loki going speed-dating. It took an unexpected (and kinky) turn.

The restaurant is actually really beautiful – it’s elegant and sophisticated-looking, nestled on a smaller side-street in the part of the city you don’t get to very often. It’s hard to focus on any one feature of the establishment; looking back, you can only describe it in sensory flashes: the smell of strong red wine and candles; the faint sounds of low conversation, the clinking of glassware and china, the slow music with lyrics in French; the colors pearly cream, blushing peach, and deep red. If you had the money, it’s the sort of place you’d come every so often for a night out, with friends or by yourself, in lipstick and a black dress, feeling as if you were a little girl playing dress-up in her mother’s clothes, instead of the grown woman that you are.

Tonight, though, the restaurant is packed, the low murmur of conversation now a dull roar. They’re hosting a speed-dating evening; you have no idea why a place like this would be involved in an event like that. Maybe they’re hurting for money, more than they seem to be. There is the recession, after all – and the events of a few months ago in Manhattan. If you had to guess, you’d say the tourism industry had probably taken something of a hit; who wants to go on vacation to a city where aliens might rain down from the sky Galaga-style at any minute? Especially now that (according to some of the more out-there alternative news sites you visit) the government is allegedly keeping the being responsible for the attacks, another alien, called Loki, somewhere in the city.

 _Why did I do this?_ you ask yourself one more time. And the truth is: you know (or at least your mother’s voice in your head reminds you daily) that you spend too much time alone. _“You need to come out of your shell, honey. You need to get out of yourself.”_ A treacherous part of you has always wondered what’s so terrible about yourself that you need to get out of it so badly, but you never asked your mother this; you never felt like having the argument. You figured speed-dating might be a way to get out of your apartment and talk to new people; you haven’t had a date in over a year, after all.

But…there have to be better ways of getting out of yourself than this. So far, you haven’t met anyone that you have even the faintest interest in dating. The only men to come your way so far tonight are pick-up artists – the aroma of Axe still lingers in your nostrils, making you faintly queasy, and worse (cliché of clichés), two of them were wearing actual _fedoras_ – and nerdy, sweet guys who you’d love to be friends with, but know they’re looking strictly for girlfriend (and, eventually, wife and mother to their children) material. And there’s nothing wrong with that, you suppose, but you can’t plan that far ahead – you don’t even know if you _ever_ want to get married – and the idea of such serious expectations for a relationship scares you. _Sometimes dating and romance really ruin things._

The bell _dings_ ; not a loud sound, but it seems to carry above the din, chiming out that it’s time for the men to move on to the next seat. It occurs to you that only heterosexual couples are here tonight; _who would be the one to move if the event was open to members of other orientations?_ you wonder treacherously. A part of you wishes you could just move freely around the room, instead of sitting captive at the table, forced to interact with everyone who sits down.

Speaking of which, you force yourself to come back to the moment and pay attention to the man who just sat down in front of you. Immediately, you’re glad you did.

He’s very tall, easily the tallest man in the room, or just about. His hair, so black it’s almost blue, is long, about shoulder-length, slightly curly at the ends (which is adorable and makes you vaguely want to pet him). His skin is fair, with cheekbones so sharp he must be able to open letters with them, and steely green eyes that seem to see right through you. He wears a well-cut black suit over his slender figure, and a scarf that color-coordinates perfectly with his tie. His long-fingered hands clasp themselves fastidiously on the table in front of him.

The other thing that strikes you, cowed as you initially are by that glare of his, is how extremely unhappy he looks to be here. Most of the people you’ve seen here have been cheerful, optimistic, or even desperate – but never downright unhappy. He looks almost as unhappy as you feel. This gives you a weird, fleeting feeling of kinship with him.

You force yourself to speak. “So…what are you in for?” You realize too late what a weird way that is to word the question. The only thing worse than not being witty, you reflect, is trying to be witty and epically failing. “I mean, what made you decide to come out tonight?” you try again.

He looks rather taken aback, for a moment, that you’re actually talking to him. Not because he doesn’t think himself worthy – he clearly does – it’s almost as if he finds your conversation beneath him. That intimidates you, but it also pisses you off. “Did you hear what I asked?”

“Yes, I heard you,” he practically snaps. “For your information, I am here on a wager. A friend of my brother’s – the fool who calls himself my brother, rather – told me I could not court a maiden and achieve a ‘date’ by one of these events. I shall prove him wrong.”

“Not with this kind of attitude, you won’t,” says your mouth before you can stop it.

He looks taken _even farther_ aback now, staring at you with renewed intensity. _“What?”_

“I understand not being comfortable at one of these things. I’m sure not. But it took a lot of people a lot of guts just to come out here, and you at least owe them respect. At least _try_ to disguise the fact that you think you’re too good for them. And me.” Your face feels hot; you know you’re blushing hard. You’re surprised you haven’t stammered yet, the way you usually do in an argument.

He peers at you; at least the look of boredom is gone from his eyes. “Oh, yes? Well…” Slick as oil, his manner changes smoothly over into one of incorrigible suaveness. It’s at once irritating and…attractive. You hate yourself for it, but you do tend to conform to that tired old trope about liking “bad boys.” What is it about arrogant douchebaggery that can be so strangely arousing? “Is this better?” he asks you solicitously, with a smoldering gaze that seems as if it’s burning right through your clothes. “Will the maidens prefer _this_ , do you suppose?”

“Maybe.” You try to keep your voice level, even though you know it’s no use. You’re not fooling anyone, let alone him. “If you’re lucky.”

He smirks. “Incidentally, that is quite an…interesting kirdle you’re wearing.” You blush harder; tonight you wore your pale blue “Arwen dress” as you call it; you got it on sale from some Wiccan shop, and its cut and embroidery remind you of the elves’ costumes from _Lord of the Rings_ , which is why you like it. It’s flattering on you, but not very stylish. ‘ _Kirdle’?_ You know the word from your books, but it’s an ancient one. “It is quite unlike what most of the women here are dressed in. It makes you look like one of the maidens from back home.”

Ah, so he’s not American. You _thought_ he sounded European. “Um…thank you. It’s one of my favorites. Where are you from?”

“Far away. It matters not.” He sits back, and regards you. “And you are the first maiden tonight not to swoon over me,” he continues, sounding almost as if he’s talking to himself. “I do like a bit of spirit. So unlike these others.”

That _really_ pisses you off. It’s one of those things men say – that you’re “not like other girls” – that sounds like a compliment until you really listen to it. “Excuse me? What the _hell_ is so wrong with ‘these others’?”

He looks shocked that you would even question the compliment he deigns to give you. Then, another smile curves his lips. “You _are_ a fiery little thing.”

You look up at the clock. Just a minute or two left of this. True, he’s the only man tonight you’ve felt any desire for, but you won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that. Still, you wonder… “What’s your name?” you ask. “You never told me.”

But he’s not looking at you. He’s turned in his chair, staring transfixed at the TV screen over the restaurant’s mahogany bar. You’re annoyed that now he’s not even pretending to give you his attention, but you follow his gaze anyway.

On the screen, CNN is showing footage from the attack on Manhattan. It’s too loud and you’re too far away to hear, but according to the words onscreen, new footage has been recovered from Stark Tower of this Loki being. A still of a blurry face is onscreen now. As the two of you watch in silence, they zoom in until the image sharpens.

You know that face. It’s sitting across the table from you, right now.

The bell rings, but Loki – if it’s really him – pays no attention, or maybe he doesn’t hear it. His face has gone from pale to white as a sheet. His air of superiority has vanished. He is downcast, and he licks his lips as his eyes scan the room, searching for exits; calculating. Just one person needs to recognize him. One person yelling out the truth is all it would take.

Even though you know he’s dangerous, you can’t help but feel a little sorry for anyone who looks so…well…frightened.

“Are you him?” You don’t ask loudly, but his head jerks around, as if he’s startled. “Are you really him?”

He’s silent for a moment. Then, he says curtly, “I must leave. I should never have come. It was a foolish risk to take.”

Without quite knowing why, you stand up. “Come on.” You look down at him. “Come on. Come on… _Loki_. I’m going to get you out of here.” Somehow, your voice stays steady, and after another beat, Loki rises slowly and follows you out. He looks as dazed as you feel; you realize he’s trying hard not to panic. You also realize that he could probably kill you. Your hand reaches into your purse, fingers finding your can of pepper spray, just in case.

* * *

Loki wrinkles his nose at the somewhat muddy and trash-encrusted stairs and dirty railing, leading down to the subway tunnel. “Must we really?”

“This is the cheapest way to travel, and neither of us has much money,” you point out. “Besides, we’ll blend in down there. Lots of different people take the subway. And no one will expect to find you down there, either.” He still looks disdainful, but concedes the point.

After watching your brief bout of profanity at a glitchy ticket machine with a mixture of judgment and some amusement, Loki follows you through the gate and down to the platform, where – to your mild amazement – he becomes distracted by a small group of street musicians playing together surprisingly well, one of their instrument cases open on the platform before them. “Give them some change,” you urge Loki.

His brow knits. “What do you mean, ‘change’?”

At your prodding, he takes out the handful of cash he was apparently given when he was set loose (as you can’t help but think of it), and you help him separate out a few dollar bills and some coins, which he drops into the case as nonchalantly as he can. Once this is accomplished, he tries to sidle away, but the musicians don’t let him go in peace – they spike the volume and tempo of the tune in celebration, catching everyone else on the platform’s attention. To your surprise, Loki blushes pink under their gaze and slinks back over to you. _“You told me we would blend in,”_ he hisses accusatorily at you, and sulks until the train arrives.

The doors of the subway car creak shut, and you breathe a small sigh of relief. Even if the other passengers do realize who Loki is, there are only three other people in the car. And one is asleep, one looks just about to nod off, and the other is reading.

On the other hand…this means no witnesses. No one who saw the two of you traveling together.

What will Loki do once he doesn’t need you anymore?

But then…if Loki is staying at a government facility, they’d likely keep him from hurting you, wouldn’t they?

_What if he doesn’t want you to take him back there?_

Well…you still know the city better than he does. If need be, you can take him someplace secluded, and…you still have your pepper spray, and the pocket-sized Swiss army knife in your purse.

You look up and realize he’s staring at you. You can’t hide your fear in time. “I know your mind,” he tells you quietly; the oily smoothness is back. “Rest assured, little one, I will not harm you.”

“Don’t call me that. I’m not a child.” It comes out louder than you meant it to; the woman who’s reading looks up from her book at the two of you. “It’s okay,” you tell her.

“It burns you,” Loki remarks quietly as the car jerks into motion. “Doesn’t it? When men treat you with any manner of charm or favor? I wonder what”- his sentence ends in a cry, in a language you don’t know, as the car’s increase in speed nearly jerks him off his feet and he clutches desperately at the pole to keep from falling on his face. You stifle your helpless giggle, but the spell is already broken. Your apprehension dissipates somewhat.

Loki sees your amusement. “We do not use such _primitive_ methods of transport in _my_ realm,” he snaps. “I can travel such distances as this by teleportation, not in one of these _stinking cans”-_ the car jolts unsteadily around a bend in the track, and nearly knocks him off his feet again. You sit down on one of the empty seats and relax back. You love riding the subway; ever since you moved to the city and rode one for the very first time, almost two years ago. You like to go fast.

“Don’t worry, Loki,” you tell him. “We’ll be at my stop soon enough.”

* * *

“You fear me,” Loki remarks, somewhat recovered from his ride on the subway, and the way he says it – that grin – makes you want to punch him in the face. But it also makes you – well…it makes you…

… _Horny._

 _Stupid alien-god-thing with his stupid grin_. You glower silently, closing and locking the door behind him.

“Call whoever you need to call. You can use my phone,” you tell him shortly. “If you don’t know how, I’ll dial the number for you.”

“Of course I know how,” he snaps at you, cheeks pinkening.

“Well, then call your ride home. I have to work tomorrow. I don’t have time to babysit you all night.” You actually do feel guilty for speaking to anyone like this, even someone like him.

“What is your job?” he inquires, without looking up from his examination of your bookcase.

You suspect he’s not listening, but you want to talk to someone about it, so you answer anyway. You tell yourself that you don’t care whether he listens or not. “I work at one of the museums in this city.” You’d rather he didn’t know which one, you decide. “I used to give tours, but now I supervise all the tours we run. I was really proud of myself when I got promoted, and it’s more money, but I still miss giving tours, sometimes. I’m a history nerd – well, I’m a nerd in a lot of ways – and it was wonderful, getting paid to go on and on about a subject people usually just wish you’d shut up about.” Maybe there’s a note of… _something_ in your voice, because he looks up briefly.

That grin again, and under it is something you can’t identify. “Well, perhaps you’ll give me a private tour sometime.”

“I doubt it.”

“You’re bolder since we arrived,” he notices. “But then, I suppose this is your place, isn’t it?”

“Yes, I guess it is.”

“Why did you go to that place?” he asks, attention focused on you. Given the hungry look he was giving your books, you suppose you should be flattered that he wrenched himself away from them. And, though you hate to admit it, you are. “That… ‘speed-dating’ event?”

“To get out, I guess. People always tell me I spend too much time alone.” He smiles at that, too, but differently; caustically, as if he knows the feeling.

You push the thought away. “Seriously, I’m not taking you back to whatever government bunker you’ve been living in. I’m not going back out tonight, it’s too late. You should call someone to come get you here.”

“You’re angry with me.”

“Well, yeah. Of course I am.”

“Because of how I spoke to you at the restaurant and on your ‘subway’? Oh very well, I _apologize_ , then.” He rolls his eyes, slouches nonchalantly at you; does everything he can to make it seem casual, tiresome, inconsequential; not like the concession you both know it is.

“No, that’s not why.” The footage, captured via someone’s cell phone and uploaded to YouTube a few hours later, of his speech and fascistic little display in Stuttgart plays in your mind’s eye. “Contrary to what you seem to believe, you’re not the only douchebag ever to walk the face of the Earth.”

The danger of Loki – as attracted as you are to him (and as long as it’s been since you’ve had any physical intimacy, or even contact) – is not that he is something new, as he seems to believe. It’s that you’ve known him before. Many times before.

“But I’ve done nothing else to you,” he protests. “I’m certain of it.”

You had been hunting in your cupboard for tea bags, but now, you whirl around and face him.

“Are you _sure_ about that, Loki? Because as I recall, you removed some poor guy’s _eyeball_ and _caned_ another guy in the _face,_ nearly lasered an old _Holocaust survivor_ , _destroyed_ most of Manhattan, and nearly got the _entire island_ nuked! People _died!_ Their homes got _destroyed!_ Their lives were _ruined_ , and _you_ just get to go _prancing_ around the city, thinking you’re so _cool_ and…and going _speed-dating!”_

Loki is silent for a few moments after your tirade ends, and then he remarks quietly, “I do not _prance.”_

“Forget it. I don’t even know why I helped you. I don’t even know why I let you _stay_ here this long.”

Loki perches on the armrest of your couch. You realize he’s uncomfortable here. You almost feel bad about that. Almost. “So I suppose most of your realm hates me as much as you do, then?” He’s looking down at one of his cuffs, fiddling with a cuff link, forcing himself to act casual. You’ve always liked people who wear suits well, especially with cuff links.

“Most of it, probably,” you agree honestly, refusing to feel sorry for him.

“Well, _that_ makes two of them.” He snorts. “Possibly three, if the Jotnar have learned of the _antics_ during my brief reign yet.” You don’t know what he’s referring to, so you keep silent.

“Would you like to punish me for what I’ve done?”

The question catches you off-guard. You’re not even sure you heard correctly. “ _What?”_

He shifts, sitting back on the armrest. “You see, I have developed something of a…theory about you. Feel free to correct me if it’s wrong. But I sense you are an extremely fearful person – not weak, simply fearful. My theory is that if you were given complete – or as near-complete as may be – control over a situation – over another person – well then, you would shed your fear. And that would be very interesting to see.”

You have no idea if he’s finally snapped. You decide to play along. “And who would I be controlling in this scenario?”

He laughs. “Well, _me_. You want to punish me, and I would like to see what you can do. Besides, I find you quite attractive.”

And you try to let the compliment slide off you, but some of it sticks. And, oh God – oh Gods – he really is beautiful; not “handsome,” but an honest-to-goodness _beautiful_ man. And his grin does things to you, and it’s almost as if he read your mind and knows all about those NSFW blogs you read and the leather things you buy for yourself and keep buried at the bottom of your sock drawer, certain you’ll never have the guts to actually _use_ them with anyone, even if you _did_ have someone to use them on.

And you really _do_ have a thing for douchebags.

Besides, when are you next going to have the opportunity to…to _do this_ with anyone, let alone someone _like him?_

“Well,” you say slowly. “I guess you can always call for your ride in an hour or two.”

* * *

If someone had told you at the beginning of this evening that, not only would you actually meet someone tonight, but that he would now be lying stretched out on your bed, completely naked, lashed to your headboard and blindfolded, his gorgeous black hair fanned out over your pillows…well, you probably would have laughed.

Right now, it’s not especially funny. Thrilling, yes; arousing, of course – but not funny. Not one bit.

 

_“There need to be safe words,” you had insisted._

_He rolled his eyes. “A mortal like you could not harm me.”_

_“This isn’t just about physical safety, Loki. Come on. I’m not going to do it otherwise.”_

_“Oh, very well. Fine. You choose them, then.”_

_In the end, you decided to go by the book. “If you want me to stop, say ‘red.’ If you want me to continue again, but…slowly and carefully, say ‘yellow.’ If you want me to just go on ahead, say ‘green.’ Understand?”_

_He laughed. “Yes, little mortal. I think I can just about grasp that.”_

_You drew yourself up. “I told you not to call me ‘little.’”_

_He smirked at you. “And what are you going to do about it?”_

 

You’re wearing the black leather vest and shorts from your drawer, the gear you bought for yourself the year you moved out on your own. You expected them to feel odd, unlike you, unsettling, but actually the unsettling thing is how natural they feel. Just wearing them, along with a pair of black leather boots you keep for semiformal occasions during the winter, makes you feel as if a weight is lifting from your shoulders; as if you’re shedding some kind of disguise.

You don’t bother striking an authoritative pose; it feels fake, and it’s not as if Loki can see it, anyway. Instead, you climb onto the foot of your bed and crouch above his prone form, peering down at him, figuring out your next move.

_You emerge from your bathroom, changed into your leather, your Arwen dress still hanging from a hook on its wall. You still can’t imagine doing this with someone, but you can imagine it even less in a hippie dress like that._

_Loki’s facial expression makes your efforts worth it. You had expected him to find such a costume silly, as silly as he found the idea of safe words. Instead, he’s gaping – actually gaping – at you with his beautiful mouth, eyes wide as saucers, and – although it’s difficult to tell because he’s still clothed (you’ll have to fix that) – he looks as if he might already be getting hard from just the sight of you._

_A part of you wants to blush and ask coyly if he likes what he sees. But you can feel the change inside you, and you no longer have the patience for those games. “Loki.”_

_He jerks out of his reverie, and you see him straighten himself up unconsciously, even as another smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “ Yes?”_

_“Take off your clothes.” Your voice isn’t exactly loud, and it’s not cruel, like the dominatrix caricatures you see on TV. But its shakiness and hesitancy are gone. It’s a voice like metal, or even stone._

_You watch him watching you – he looks calculating again, and while his air of superiority is not gone, it might be deflating. Slowly, he reaches up to take off his coat, his scarf, his tie, and his shoes._

_“Put your scarf, belt, and tie on the bed.” He drapes them over your headboard and you nod. He begins to unbutton his shirt. “Stop,” you order._

_He looks up. “Yes?”_

_“Do it slowly.” His fingers slow obediently, and you sit down on the bed, letting your eyes slide over his body as he exposes himself – displays himself – for you. He’s slender and toned, looking almost carved out of ivory or marble, with small but delicately defined pectorals and abdominals. His skin is smooth and devoid of body hair, especially for a man. He’s completely naked before you now, blushing again, his cock semi-hard. It stiffens further as you stand and begin to circle him, admiring him. Eventually you stop, behind him, and reach out a hand to fulfill your first fantasy: stroking his hair, which hangs down his white back and is thick and silky to the touch. He shivers, and then squirms, not unhappily, as you trace his spine, shoulder blades, neck, and collarbone with your fingertips._

_You want to kiss him – his lips, his neck, his hair…all over him – but he’s too tall. You stand back, arms crossed in frustration. “ Loki,” you hear yourself growl._

_He snaps to attention, opening his eyes. “Yes?”_

_“Get on the bed.” He obeys quickly, eagerly even, and you spend a few more minutes enjoying the sight of him (and letting him wait). Then, “Now hand me your scarf, your belt, and your tie.” His reaction time, when it comes to following your commands, seems to be getting quicker. You clench your thighs as the thought makes you hotter._

_You use his scarf to tie his wrists together above his head, looping his belt through it and fastening that around your headboard, tight enough to be constrictive but loose enough for your plans. You knot the tie around his head, covering his eyes._

 

“Are you okay, Loki?” you check in with him, now.

He sneers, but you can see the cracks behind it, and it makes you anxious, but also strangely gratified. “As I said, mortal, you cannot hurt me. I could free myself in an instant if I wished.”

“Quiet,” you snap. It’s not all posturing; you’re horny, and you do rather like Loki, in a way, but it’s been a long night. “I’m tired of this crap from you.” For a moment, you don’t know what to do next; then it comes to you. “Roll over,” you snap at him, getting up off the bed.

“What are you doing?” Loki demands (with just a hint of an impatient whine in his voice) from where he now lies, on his stomach (and on his erection), as you search your drawers and closet for the item you need. You don’t bother to answer him. When you do find it, you feel your sense of powerful calm returning, and you approach the bed slowly, with measured, relaxed steps.

“Do you know what this is, Loki?” You slide the belt delicately down his spine. He jerks under the ticklish sensation. “Answer me,” you order when he doesn’t reply.

You’re not sure, but you think you can hear him breathing harder. “I believe I can guess.”

“Can you also guess what I’m going to do with it?”

He tries to sound flippant, nonchalant. “Well…I _assume_ this is where the ‘punishment’ we spoke of earlier comes into play.”

You lean down, close to his ear. You hear a gasp and feel his body twitch under you as your breath falls on his skin. “You tried to take my world.” You pull the voice from deep within your core, from the anger you carry with you all the time, the weight that slowly increases each time someone hurts you. “You tried to take my freedom. You threatened everything I’ve managed to build for myself – the little piece of the world that everyone has managed to make their own. You dismissed my people without a second thought –without even giving us a chance – because we weren’t born as powerful as you. For everything you’ve done…you deserve this.” You pause, partly to compose yourself. You are angry and you are horny, a combination you’d never have thought would feel so good. “I hope that what you say about me not being able to really hurt you is true, Loki. Because I’m going to try.” At that, he tenses under you. You get off him, and stand beside the bed, getting a grip on the belt, doubling it up for more control, holding it by the end with the buckle. “If you need me to stop,” you tell him more calmly, “you know the magic word.”

You don’t wait for his derisive retort before you start hitting him.

You make sure to listen for his voice, but otherwise, you let yourself go, bringing the belt across his back – and especially across his ass, because it seems too perfect not to touch, and because the idea of _spanking_ him makes you even wetter – over and over, as hard and fast as you can, so much so that at a few points the belt snaps back and hits your knuckles, nearly cutting them; this doesn’t stop you. Loki is doing his best not to cry out, you can tell, but soon you start to hear small gasps, which turn to moans, until, writhing under your belt, he’s barely able to choke back a scream.

You stop your strokes. “Shall I stop, Loki?”

 _“No,”_ he gasps, lifting his face off your pillow; you can see how red he is. “No – don’t you _dare”-_

“Maybe I _should_ stop.” You pretend to consider it. “I _am_ getting tired”-

 _“NO!_ _No_ , _don’t_ _stop,_ _please …” _he begs.

Actually, you _were_ beginning to get tired and were thinking of stopping, but his voice – that little, choking _“please”_ – spurs you on. You continue whipping him, as hard as you can as he continues to squirm and yelp, until your arms really do feel ready to fall off. You throw the belt down, stripping off your now-sweaty leather and climbing onto the bed. You sag onto Loki; he’s trembling faintly. You turn your head and press kisses into his hair as comfortingly as you can until the quivering subsides. When you have the strength, you take Loki’s shoulder and guide him onto his already-nearly-healed back, fingers brushing his hair gently out of his face.

His cock bobs gently as he rolls over; if anything, it looks even redder – nearly purple – and even harder, now. You were sure he’d come while you were beating him, but apparently not.

But you can fix that, too. In fact, you really want to. Oh, yes.

 _“Loki.”_ You speak more softly, sweetly, but it’s a tone that sends shivers up even your own spine. “Oh, Loki…you want to come, don’t you?”

 _“Yes,”_ he moans.

“I want to help you,” you reassure him with a small smile. “I want to help you come, Loki. But first, there’s something you need to do for me.”

He doesn’t reply, but he’s listening; he tenses and you hear him swallow briefly, breathing hard. “I want you to pleasure me,” you murmur. “With your mouth. Do you understand me, Loki?” He nods.

You lift yourself up and spread your legs carefully on either side of his head, using your headboard to help you sink down until you are kneeling – _ha, he did get me to kneel for him after all;_ you nearly laugh to yourself – so close to him that you can feel his breath on your folds, his tongue poking out of his mouth, trying to tell if you’re close enough to him yet. “That’s right, Loki,” you murmur, a wave of arousal going through you as you reach down, both to stroke his hair and to guide his chin up toward you. “Take it.” You twitch as you feel his tongue, searching for and finding your clit. “That’s right. Good boy.”

At first, he traces the line from your clit down to your rim with the tip of his tongue, and then he laps at you, feverishly at first, and then, as he grows more comfortable, with more strategy. Soon, his lips are sucking on your clit, and when you feel one tooth massage you briefly, your legs nearly collapse and you know that if he does this much longer, you’re going to come. “Stop.”

You swing your leg over and roll onto the bed next to him, giving yourself a minute. Then, you’re back up, straddling him once again. “You took your punishment like such a good boy, Loki,” you murmur to him. “So _I guess_ you’ve earned this.” You reach down and pick up the condom, taking off the wrapper and teasing him a bit (but not too much) as you roll it down onto him.

Even with his blindfold partly covering his face, his expression as you lower yourself onto him – around him – is truly beautiful.

You’re not sure if you’ve ever fucked anyone in this position, riding them as you’re now riding Loki, so it’s a constant adjustment, shifting yourself into just the right position, finding where your hands should go, even as he thrusts into you, filling you completely, and you rut against him, clumsily at first, but then more gracefully as both of your bodies’ rhythms sync up.

On impulse, you pull up the blindfold, darting a glance down into his face as he blinks and raises his brilliant green eyes to yours.

You’ve managed to resist Loki’s charm – well, mostly – all night. How odd that at this moment, when he’s so deep in sensation that he can’t try to be anything other than who he is, he is at his most beautiful. You bend toward him as far as you can; you smell his scent (oddly like the smell of snow, but with a hint of cinnamon that is somehow not discordant at all), feel the peculiar coolness and smoothness of his skin, the tautness of his muscles under you. His face has fallen open, losing its guardedness; his cheeks flushed, his lips parted slightly as he takes a few of your fingers between them, kissing and licking them, a small but genuine smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Beneath long lashes, his pupils are dilated, eyes bleary with pleasure. He gazes up at you with an expression of simple, perfect trust.

Cliché or not, you feel your heart melt, and you lean down to kiss him – a long, possessive yet loving kiss that lasts until you feel your orgasm wash over you. A few moments later, his body spasms under you as he comes too, with a deep, desperate roar from the back of his throat.

In a moment, you’ll untie him, but for now, you sink down against his chest, and you feel him nuzzle into your hair, as he relaxes back on the mattress, as sated and exhausted as you are.

* * *

“Loki?” you whisper, your voice sounding odd in the silence of the apartment.

The room is dark now, except for the lights from the city that leak in through your bedroom window, and you’re both completely naked now, huddled together under your comfortingly heavy blankets.

“Yes?” You wonder if you woke him up. Probably. You’re surprised that he doesn’t sound annoyed about it.

“When did you first…know?”

He turns onto his back. “Do you mean, when did I know I wanted this, in bed?”

You nod in the near-dark. “I can remember, from playing make-believe when I was about four. I always wanted to be the evil queen or the witch or whoever. I loved tying up the ‘good guys,’ or rigging together a pretend dungeon or cage for them, or bossing my henchmen around…it gave me strange feelings. I didn’t know then that it had anything to do with sex. I don’t even think I knew what sex was, back then.” You swallow, throat unexpectedly tight as you remember. “As I got older…I was so scared that deep down, I was some kind of evil, terrible person because I wanted…because I had these fantasies. And I didn’t think I could tell anyone about it. And when we learned about sex…all people ever tell you is that it’s where babies come from. Nobody ever talks about things like this. Nobody teaches kids that if they want to do this, it doesn’t make them terrible people, because there are ways to do it safely and so that both people get pleasure from it…is it any different where you grew up?”

He laughs bitterly. “It might be worse. I was…let’s see…well, my first infatuation, when I was not much older than you were, was on one of my mother’s Valkyries – women warriors. And then I can remember sparring with Lady Sif – a friend of the man who I believed was my brother – and when she bested me, stood over me…” he trails off; is his cheek darkening, or just a shadow? “I became visibly…well…aroused.”

You can’t help but grin. “It’s okay, Loki. I know what you mean.”

“Yes. And then everyone present took to taunting me for being an ‘ _ergi._ ’” You do know enough about Old Norse culture to know what that means; you wince, and nestle in closer to him, protectively.

His voice grows hoarse. “And then, much later, when I…after I…after I _fell_ , and I met…them… _him_ …and…” You look up toward him; he sounds as if he’s choking up.

The words seem to escape from him, forcing their way between his lips. _“They tortured me.”_

You want to ask _who?_ But you can’t; you can’t say a word. All you can do is shiver helplessly under the blanket and curl yourself around him tighter. It might be one of the most gut-wrenching moments of your life.

 “And the worst part is,” he chokes out, “that even though I _know_ I didn’t _want_ it…I didn’t _like_ it…I told them – I told them to _stop_ …but because of the fantasies, you know…you feel as if you – as if you _asked_ for it – just because you…because you once had those _feelings_. Those _desires_. Because once, you _did_ want it. Or thought you did. Or something that resembled it. A part of you always thinks that you were _asking_ for it.”

And there’s nothing you can do, in the end, except murmur “ _you’re all right, you’re safe now, shhh,”_ and, as you lie to him (because what can someone like _you_ possibly protect someone like _him_ from?), reach up to stroke a lock of his hair, until you hear his breathing even out as he drifts off to sleep.


	2. Chocolate Milk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No actual sex in this chapter, just some depression and fluff based on another naughtylokiconfessions prompt, about Loki trying chocolate milk for the first time.

         The first time the buzzer up to your apartment sounds, you don’t even move. You’ve been trying to doze off to a marathon of some reality show you don’t even remember the title of; for a while, you were succeeding. When your mood falls like this – when the depression comes back – there isn’t much to do but sleep and maybe read if you can. Medication lessens its effects, but doesn’t cure them. You’ve learned to treat it as your brain catching a sort of “bug,” the same way that the rest of you sometimes does. You know to just take care of yourself and wait it out.

         Even if you could bring yourself to care about whoever wants to come up, you doubt that it’s important. Most likely it’s some package arriving; one of the books, art tools, or cosplay supplies you ordered online. The retiree who lives on the ground floor can sign for it; he knows you. He and his wife had you over for a few holiday dinners, back when you first moved to the city, before you knew anyone else.

         Except…

        _It might be him._

        You roll over, mentally shaking your head at yourself. _Of course it’s not Loki_. True, he’s been to see you a few more times since your freak meeting a month or so ago at that speed-dating thing, but even if a prisoner of “SHIELD” (at least, technically) could just come and go as he pleased, you’re fairly certain you had no plans to meet today. You certainly hope not; you really aren’t in the mood for the sorts of (decidedly R- or even X-rated) antics that you and he get into together.

        The buzzer sounds again, insistently, so you summon all your willpower, disentangle yourself painstakingly from your blanket-cocoon, and drag yourself over to answer it. _“Yes?”_ You realize belatedly how abrupt you sound – probably even rude – but at the moment you are incapable of modulating your tone, and besides you truly have no fucks to give.

        _“What is the meaning of this? Let me up at once!”_

        As blank and gray as you are inside, that voice does…well, it doesn’t exactly cheer you up (especially since it sounds pissed off), but at least you’re feeling _something._

        “Loki?” you tentatively confirm.

       _“Who else?”_ he snaps. “Did you forget about our meeting this day? Is my company nothing more than a mere _trinket_ to you, that you cast it aside so easily? I am a _god_ , and a mortal woman such as yourself is _lucky_ that I _deign_ to”-

        You have…not exactly a headache, but that faint pressure in your temples that means one will be forthcoming. “Fine. Just come up,” you reply blankly, cutting him off mid-tirade and buzzing him up.

 

         Loki storms in, impeccably dressed as usual, giving your door an impressive slam behind him. “Can you _not?”_ you groan.

        He stops, taken aback despite his annoyance. “What’s happened to you? You appear…unwell.”

        “Thanks, Loki. That’s always nice to hear.”

        He looks defensive. “Well, _pardon me_ that I expressed _concern_ for your well-being. It is _I_ who has the right to be offended here, in any case. You left me alone – you did not meet me at the place we had agreed upon”-

         “I _forgot,_ Loki. Anyway, if you need”- you decide to be discreet – “ _company,_ you can easily find someone else. You’re a perfectly attractive man” – you do feel yourself going red as you admit it – “and besides, like you said: you’re a _god.”_

         He shifts, a bit uncomfortably. It’s the look that you like to believe he gave his mother ( _do gods from space have mothers?)_ as a youngling-god when he stole the Eternal Candy or whatever, and she asked him later about where it had gone. “It is not a simple matter of whether I might have found ‘someone else.’ _You_ should have been there.”

         “Loki, I’m…” you realize how many years it’s been since you’ve had to explain having depression to someone. Your stomach twists in a knot at the thought. “I’m not feeling well today. I’m not in the mood for sex. Contact me…some other time. In fact, I’ll call you. Does the number you got me still work?”

         “Yes.” A long silence, and then he snaps, “And you needn’t lie to a liar, either. If there is _someone else,_ you could simply”-

         _“Dammit, Loki, not everything is about you!”_ You fight the urge to curl up right here on the kitchen floor. “There _isn’t_ anyone else, I just don’t feel well today, and _that’s all.”_

         He looks sheepish now. “Oh.” He looks down and straightens one of his cuffs, even though it looked fine to begin with. “Then I suppose I won’t impose further on your time.” He raises his head slowly and turns to look at you. “Unless…if you are feeling unwell, do you require…assistance?”

         Treacherously, a part of you wants this. You want him to curl around you until you feel better, you want him protecting you from all the bad thoughts, and chasing away the horrible cold emptiness that comes in place of any good feeling.

          But even if Loki was capable of that – and you don’t believe he is – you know he doesn’t really want to help you. He’s just being polite, or acting out of some perceived obligation, or perhaps hoping to convince you to change your mind about sex. And even if he does want to help you, he’ll soon change his mind once he sees the way you really are inside. If you let him in now, you’ll scare him off for sure.

         But he looks so desperate not to be sent away, that you just don’t have the energy to resist. “Okay, Loki. Thank you.”

 

         You’re glad you left the TV on; it takes the pressure to entertain your guest off you, since Loki is enthralled by the antics onscreen. _“That mortal woman just overturned a table!_ What madness – and yet, what _strength_. Like my brother, at his most foolhardy – and now there is _combat!_ Although none of these _wenches_ possesses armor or a suitable weapon. In fact, they look better-attired for the _bedchamber_ than the _sparring ring_ or the _battlefield_ …”

         “They can wear whatever they want,” you object, but it’s a mumble; you’re back under your mountain of blankets, feet resting on Loki’s lap. Maybe that’s why he wanted to stay – he figured that helping you would be at least some substitute for being dominated by you. You actually love the idea of Loki taking orders from you even outside the bedroom sometimes, but right now you really can’t enjoy the prospect.

        He lifts the blankets and peers over at you. “When did you last _eat?_ Or _drink?”_

         “This morning.”

        “What did you have?”

         “Juice.”

         “Yes, but what _food?”_

         “Nothing solid. My stomach doesn’t feel well.” It never does, when you get like this. You can never tell if you’re hungry or nauseated.

         He rises. “Where do you store your food?” You indicate the fridge.

          He pulls open the door uncertainly, and rears back, clearly taken by surprise at the cold air. Then, trying to look as if he sees this sort of thing all the time, he leans in, searching for some likely-looking product.

         At last, he pulls out a plastic jug, about half-full of thick brown liquid. “What is _this?”_

         “Chocolate milk.”

         He shuts the fridge door and studies the jug, holding it up to the light like a scientist might a test tube. “I thought Midgardian foods strange enough – but I never suspected you of perverting even something so simple as cow’s milk with your strange so-called ‘improvements.’”

         “Chocolate milk is good.”

         “It looks… _polluted.”_

         “Loki, have you ever _had_ chocolate?”

         He nods, a bit reluctantly. “Once, a few months ago…there was some Midgard feast day, and Thor brought me some. Very small pieces, they were, in a misshapen red box.” He chuckles to himself. “The Man of Iron taunted my brother most amusingly that day. It seems that such gifts are only given to a woman one is courting.”

          “And did you like it?”

          He nods again. “It was delicious.”

          “Well, this is just chocolate that you drink.” You raise yourself up to a seated position. “Come on – pour two cups of it. I’ll drink some if you try some, too.” Privately, you hope it hasn’t gone sour yet.

         He treats you to his best “long-suffering” sigh even as he obeys. “Your wish is my command, _mistress_ ,” he huffs, reaching for two clean glasses from the dish rack.

 

         You take a small sip of your chocolate milk – not sour, thank gods – and the sweet taste, especially decadent on your dry tongue, makes your mouth water so hard that it hurts. Emboldened, you take a bigger drink, filling your mouth with it, as you watch Loki.

         What exactly is his problem with chocolate milk? He’s eyeing it as if it’s some strange potion concocted by the most sinister and powerful sorcerers of Midgard for his personal undoing. “Come _on,_ Loki, I drank mine,” you chide him. Inwardly, you’re beginning to feel anxious yourself. What if Loki is acting out of some ancient survival instinct? What if chocolate milk is somehow dangerous for his race?

         Maybe he senses your anxiety, because he flashes you a cocky smile. “Worry not, _little one_. I am not afraid.” And he bravely – and dramatically – swigs a sip.

        You watch as his eyes grow wide. Licking his lips, he holds the glass before him and gazes at it as if it contains the elixir of life.

        Is he okay? “Um, Loki?” you inquire carefully. _Oh god, what if he is sick? I told him to drink it, it’s my fault!_

        His eyes refocus, and he looks up at you. “This – this beverage…”

         “Is it…okay?”

         _“Okay?”_ he repeats incredulously. “Is it _‘okay’?”_

         “Loki, I’m sorry – I honestly thought you’d like it”-

         _“Like it?”_ He takes another drink, this time knocking back a third of the glass. “This is _incredible_. This beverage – this beverage surpasses _anything_ we have on Asgard. Anything else I’ve ever tasted in all the rest of the _Nine Realms!_ When I rule this world, this shall be the beverage served at all occasions of state.” With another gulp, he sets the glass down on your end table and seizes your shoulders so hard that you flinch at first. “And it’s…thanks to _you_ that I’ve tasted it.”

          One second you’re drowning in those deep green eyes, and the next second, he’s pulling you into a kiss. You still don’t have a single drop of desire in your body, but you do somewhat enjoy his passion, his gratitude, and the feel of him against you, as he wraps his arms around you and holds you tightly. You relax against him, wishing you were more enthusiastic, wishing you were happy enough to fully enjoy this moment. You swallow your regret and decide, as always, to do the best you can. You kiss him back, more passionately than you thought you could, and let the weight of him press down on you, better than any pile of blankets.

 

         “I see your mind, you know,” Loki remarks as you huddle back under the blankets, pressing up against him. The couch isn’t really wide enough for both of you, but you’re too fatigued to move, and he doesn’t seem to mind. “You believe I would abandon you for this illness. That I would run as soon as our… _association_ is no longer convenient for me.”

          You swallow hard; it’s time to come clean. “My ‘illness’ isn’t…it’s not the normal kind, Loki. Not the kind you’re thinking of. It’s in my brain, not my body. I mean, it’s just as difficult, but…some people don’t understand. Some of them don’t even think it’s real. And other people…it scares them. So I find it’s best not to talk about it much.”

          A long pause, and then… “Well, in any case,” he rallies, “You won’t rid yourself of _me_ so easily, I’m afraid. You are _mine.”_

          You have to snort at that. “Judging by what we do in bed, Loki, I’d say that _you’re_ the one who’s _mine.”_

          “Either way, we are bonded now,” he insists. “Besides,” he adds with a smile, “how could I forsake the one who introduced me to ‘chocolate milk’?”


	3. Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for a(nother) naughtylokiconfessions prompt, this one about Loki self-harming. Therefore, TW for discussion of self-harm/cutting.
> 
> (I seriously will try to write another smutty chapter soon, it just hasn't been working for me lately.)

        Trying to push yourself up without slipping back down, you wonder idly how much mildew and leakage your bathroom floor is going to have after all the water that ended up splashing onto it.

        It had started out as simple post-sex cleanup and aftercare, when Loki pouted at you that he was too sore to wash himself. “Supposing I were to stumble or slip, and I _injured_ myself? _Further_ injured myself, I should say?”

        “You’re basically a demigod – I’d worry more about my bathroom’s safety than yours,” you lied, even as you agreed to accompany him. You were nearly certain he was just trying to weasel shower sex out of the situation. Nearly.

       And once you agreed, it turned out that Loki had some sort of problem with showers. “I have no other option back at the inferior lodgings where they keep me,” he’d snapped. “But such hasty arrangements are…unworthy. Back in Asgard, when we wished to bathe, the servants would heat water by magic and pour it into great, skillfully-wrought golden pools the size of your ‘hot tubs’”-

         “Fine,” you grumbled. “We’ll take a bath. Even though I’m sure it’ll be _infinitely_ inferior to the magical golden bathtubs back where you’re from.”

         “ _Asgard_ ,” he corrected you, yet again. “You would do well to remember the name, since I intend to take you with me when I return; when I am a king again. I shall need someone with your…particular skills, to relieve the tensions of ruling.”

         “Ah. Okay. Well, you just give me some notice when that happens for you, so I can pack and everything,” you retorted dryly, wiping the tub down quickly. You’d rather not soak in your own old shower-residue, thanks.

         But it did turn out to be a rather fun idea on Loki’s part – you found some old lavender bubble bath at the back of your bathroom cabinet, and the look on Loki’s face when the bubbles started to grow – puffy, iridescent, and faintly purple – was priceless. You love Loki whenever he’s truly amazed by something the “inferior mortals” have managed to create.

         Soapy bathtub sex should have been forthcoming, and for a while, it had looked like it would be. But the bubbles kept getting into either your nose or Loki’s, and while soaped-up sex sounded like a good idea, it somehow didn’t quite manage to play out for the two of you – maybe because Loki is slightly too tall for your bathtub, or maybe because you both kept slipping down into the water and panicking about drowning. Seduction devolved into a splashfight, which ended some time later with Loki magically summoning dry washcloths, so that both of you could wipe the bubble bath from your stinging eyes. Despite the pain, you both ended up shushing each other’s irrepressible laughter, certain that someone from the floor below would come up and yell at you both to be quiet because people were trying to sleep.

         Now, Loki is lying in your lap, between your spread legs, his head resting between your breasts. You wonder idly if he can hear your heartbeat. You wonder if maybe he’s listening to it. You’re both quietly content; the only sounds are the city outside, and the faint crystalline tinkle of the water as it drips or whenever one of you moves faintly. “Loki, are you okay?” you ask, a bit groggily, your voice echoing oddly as it breaks the warm silence.

         “What?”

         “Didn’t you tell me you were some kind of being – a ‘Jotun’ I think – and they’re sensitive to heat? Are you too hot?”

        “No. I mean, yes. But I am fine. Not too hot at all.”

        “Oh. Okay. Good.” You trace your wet hands, encrusted with small bubbles like jewels, over his long, alabaster arms. He does look almost bluish against the water. He relaxes further against you as you continue to stroke him.

       Your fingertip brushes a new texture – rough and almost papery, a ridge in smooth skin – and you jerk, startled, withdrawing. Loki has stiffened. “What happened?” The question bursts out. “Where’d you get scars?” A second after you ask, you realize what a personal question it is. Besides, you know Loki was a prisoner for months. Maybe…maybe those Chitauri did this to him. Your stomach turns over at the thought.

        But the scars don’t have to be from that. Anyone can get scars. Although – you glimpse them as he recoils from you, locking back up – these don’t look very old.

         “That is none of your concern,” he snarls, scrambling out of the tub, slipping on the floor and tripping over himself, and snatching a towel from your rack.

         “Loki, those look fresh. I just want to know if someone’s hurting you.”

        “ _You_ are,” he smirks. “It’s simply consensual.”

        “Don’t change the subject.” Now you’re the one snapping. “Loki, who’s hurting you? If it’s SHIELD, then regardless of your past crimes, they have no right to”-

        “Of course it isn’t those blithering, feeble-minded bureaucrats! Do you really imagine, even if they could get past my insipid _brother_ and his sanctimonious _Captain_ long enough, that they would be _any_ match for”-

       “ _Then tell me who, Loki.”_ You didn’t mean to do it, but somehow your voice has gone from shouting back to your almost eerily cool, deep, steady voice that comes out when you’re in bed together. Loki reacts to it seemingly by mere instinct – you see him arch slightly, catlike, as the voice’s harmonics send a faint shiver through him. You watch the walls come down, briefly, and suddenly he somehow looks much older, while at the same time far too young.

        His voice is quiet now, too – so quiet you almost don’t hear him. “I did it.”

        “ _What?”_ You aren’t sure you even heard correctly.

        _“I DID IT! I made the scars!”_ he roars, and then, to your horror, he collapses into sobs.

         Fighting your fear and your not-inconsiderable guilt, you carefully draw close to him. You wrap yourself around him even as he feebly half-struggles in your arms. He’s muttering, but his sobbing nearly drowns it out. _“You…you thickheaded mortal w-w-wench…why…why did you go and…why did you need to s-s-spoil everything…”_ You don’t know what to say, so you keep holding him, rocking gently back and forth, until he starts to quiet again.

         You wish you knew what to say. You don’t have any experience with this in your own life; as messed up as you’ve sometimes been inside your own head, you never found yourself doing this, although…

        Sometimes you felt like you should. Yes, there were those times. You felt like you deserved the pain, but you couldn’t bring yourself to inflict it. Too squeamish, you thought at the time. You know better now, of course. And you suspect that this won’t be especially helpful for Loki; in fact, it could make the problem worse, if he thinks you find such behavior brave in some way.

         “Come on,” you tell him at last. “Let’s dry off.”

 

        “It began innocently enough,” Loki recounts quietly, now dried off and sipping from the mug of tea you made him. “I am a sorcerer, and there is certain seiðr that requires blood. Often, the blood of the one conducting the enchantment. It binds the spell; lends it greater endurance and force. My m…the one who taught me my seiðr warned me that I was not ready for such spells, but…in my youthful arrogance, I paid her no mind.”

        His breath hitches, as if he’s going to sob again. “I was unprepared for it. For the…there is a…a sort of… _release_ that comes with the pain. And the pain itself felt…at times, it was like…coming back to life. And besides…” he swallows audibly. “I knew…a part of me knew…I believed that I deserved it.”

         “Because of the Jotun thing?”

        “Yes, I suppose so. But even before I knew of that…I sensed that something within myself was…wrong. Always. Something of me was lacking. Perhaps because my – because Odin favored Thor. Perhaps because I am not the man Thor is – in a sense, I am not even as much of a man as he is – and never could have been; it has always been my nature to be ergi. Perhaps it was all of it. I knew I deserved pain.”

       “No, Loki, you don’t.” And again, you don’t know what to do, and you feel so helpless… “Stay with me tonight,” you tell him, mentally wincing at how abrupt you sound. “We don’t have to do anything. But you can stay. In fact, I hope you do. I don’t want you to be alone.”

       He nods, more obedient than comforted. “I am sorry I ruined our bath.”

        “Loki, you didn’t ruin anything.” You wish you could make him believe you.

 

        “There are doctors, you know,” you tell him later, as both of you are getting into bed. “Doctors for…for the mind. Here on Earth. They helped me. They could help you with this, Loki.”

        “I will speak of this matter to no one else but you,” he growls. “It is…humiliating.”

        “It’s a problem that a lot of people have. Look, I understand it’s hard to ask for help. And I’m not going to push you to do anything. I’m just putting it out there. This isn’t something you just have to live with in silence.”

       “Would you help?” he asks suddenly.

       “I’ll give you any help and support I can, Loki. But I’m not one of those doctors, so there’s only so much I can do.” You turn over and flash him a small smile. “But either way, to quote you: you won’t get rid of me that easy.” This elicits a tentative smile in return, and you decide to count that as the night’s little victory.


	4. Chained

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt about Loki in chains. Featuring Comic Con references.

“Hello, Loki,” you greet him as he walks into your apartment, turning in your desk chair from where you were sitting, in front of your computer, watching The Video. You are smiling cheerfully up at him, and you actually do feel good, even if it’s due to anticipation and not just general sunniness.

Loki knows you well; too well. He’s already looking wary. “Good evening.” He clears his throat, attempting to reclaim the bravado with which he walked through your door. “Well? You invited me here on the pretext that you had a ‘special surprise’ planned for me this evening. What is it to be? I warn you, my expectations are extremely high after the wait I’ve endured, and your secrecy did not help matters”-

“Loki?” you ask sweetly. “Do you know what this is?” You indicate the YouTube video on your screen, and he peers at it.

“Of course,” he nearly succeeds in chuckling. “The video from your event known as ‘Comic Con.’ What an… _eccentric_ performance by that Hiddleston mortal who bears my face. Did you _enjoy_ it?” he smolders at you. You nearly laugh at how hard he’s trying.

“At first. But then it made me a bit jealous. Besides, you know how I feel about you being…dominant.”

He shifts. “Well, then, fortunately, it was naught but an impersonation. Now, what delightful torments have you planned for me tonight? Come, I grow impatient.”

You consider taking him to task for trying to order you around, but you let it go. You have bigger fish to fry. “You know, I really wish I could have gone to Comic Con and seen it in person. Too bad about work. I have some online friends who went, and they said it was incredible.”

“Yes, I am certain that it”-

“The funny thing is, I checked with Sheila, and she said that you were unaccounted for a period of about forty-eight hours, when you apparently told SHIELD you were going to visit me. But of course you obviously didn’t.”

“Who is this ‘Sheila’?” he demands.

“One of SHIELD’s receptionists. No, I’m not telling you which one. She’s very nice. Don’t you pick up anyone’s name, spending so much time there?” You shake your head. “I’ve only visited once or twice, and even I sort of know some people. You just get talking, you know?

“ _Anyway_ , the even _funnier_ thing is, Tom Hiddleston’s Comic Con performance took place within that same forty-eight-hour time interval.”

He’s trying to stay so cool. And mostly, he’s succeeding. But you know the little signs and tics, and you can’t help but smile a little wider as you watch them play out across his features. “Loki, it’ll be better for you if you just come clean.”

“Do you intend to inform on me to SHIELD?” he growls.

“Not unless I have to. I take it no one’s hurt? Tom Hiddleston is fine?”

“Of course. The man practically _begged_ me to do it once I told him of my plan. He told me he thought I ‘needed’ it, that the idea gave him…” Loki’s lip curls disdainfully. “’Feels.’” You do nearly crack up at the idea of this. _Imagine what Tumblr would say about that._

“And did you have fun?” you’re back to your sweet voice. “All that attention, all that _adulation_ , from other women – and men? Did you like”- you stand, and watch as he just barely restrains himself from taking a step back –“that _slap_ you got from Natalie Portman?” He blushes at that, actually _blushes_. Oh, he enjoyed it. _This had better not ruin Natalie Portman for me_ , you think, although you doubt that it will; you’re not really that jealous. It’s just part of the game.

“Yes,” he replies, softly but defiantly, a wicked grin coming over his face. “Oh _yes_ , I _did_.” He’s waiting for you to escalate it; baiting you.

But you just smile more. “I told you I had a surprise for you.”

“You did.”

You reach behind your desk and haul out the large box, dragging it more than lifting it in what can’t be a dignified fashion. Loki snorts. You ignore him, and cut open the box. “I talked to Sheila about something else, and she talked to someone. And they talked to Thor.”

He bristles. He wasn’t expecting Thor’s hand in this. In fairness to the God of Thunder, you suspect he agreed without knowing to what use the chains would be put.

“Anyway, somehow, they convinced Thor to let me borrow these.” You reach into the box and hold up its contents so he can see.

And watch Loki go completely silent and still – dumbstruck – as he gazes at the chains that restrained him on Asgard.

“The muzzle is in here, too,” you inform him. “But I think we’ll just start with the chains.” Inwardly, you’re a little worried. You probably should have made sure this wasn’t a problem for him beforehand; what if he has too many bad memories of those chains? Yes, this is one moment when communication definitely was lacking. You hope he’s okay.

Slowly, he walks forward and lays one long finger on one of the manacles, as if making certain it’s real. “Do you want this, Loki?” you ask him. “Do you want me to put these on you?”

“ _Yes,”_ he breathes, almost reverently. “Yes, yes I do.”

You nod, trying to hide your relief. “Take your clothes off.”

 

For the first half-hour or so, Loki simply sits.

He’s completely naked now, and you’ve chained his wrists and ankles together and then wrapped the long chain around the one of your heavy armchairs that’s closest to the desk. “Down on the floor,” you told him, pointing to the carpet; now he alternates between kneeling and sitting with his knees drawn up to his chest. Processing.

You’ve continued to use your computer, making a show of ignoring him, but you look down at him every so often, and what you see makes you want to jump him there on the floor. It seems that simply being restrained – especially by these chains in particular – is enough to make Loki hard. You watch him sitting, struggling to resist touching himself – you told him it wasn’t allowed – as his face grows more and more flushed. He’s breathing hard; not quite hyperventilating, which is good, but visibly excited as he processes his current predicament. You haven’t even closed your blinds; it’s possible that any number of Midgardians could catch a glimpse of you and your newest pet, and when you tell Loki this, he gets even redder.

 

Eventually, of course, he does grow restless. It starts out as shifting loudly, and sighs that are clearly directed at you. When these hints don’t take, he begins to moan, rubbing himself against your leg like a cat, pressing his lips to your bare calf and then your knee, and doing his best to get under your skirt and go higher… _enough_. Without looking up from the screen, you seize a fistful of his hair in one hand, and jerk him back across the floor, where he sprawls, actually panting now. “Mistress, _please,”_ he gasps. “ _Please_ touch me.”

“You got plenty of attention at Comic Con,” you tell him stonily, still not looking up. “I’m busy.” You grin to yourself at his growl of frustration.

 

He refrains longer than you expected him to, but eventually, you do see him cautiously – though not without a sidelong glance at you – bring his hand to his shaft and begin to rub, as quietly as he can. “Stop,” you order, and this time you turn and face him, standing up. “Should I get the belt?”

His eyes light up. “Why, Mistress, I…I can’t see how we’re to avoid it. If you don’t punish me, how will I ever learn my lesson?”

You consider it, but…no, you’re a bit tired for that. Best to leave it for next time. “No, I won’t use the belt, Loki. Because you _want_ me to. That would be rewarding bad behavior.” You crouch beside him. “Turn around.”

He does, eagerly. Perhaps he thinks you’re going to spank him by hand. Instead, you loosen the slack on the chains on his wrists and gather both arms behind his back, tightening the chain so that they’re bound there. “There. Problem solved.” This time he actually snarls a curse (at least, that’s what it sounds like) at you in whatever language Asgardians speak. “And don’t talk to me like that, or I’ll make it tighter.”

 

Finally, you exhaust your interest in any of your usual online haunts, and gaze over at Loki, still sweating and squirming faintly, still hard, but now generally quiet, obediently waiting for your attention. You take a moment to appreciate the sight of him in chains – they remind you strangely of jewelry, draped over him like that, and glinting, catching the light. It’s almost like he’s a gift, wrapped and decorated just for you. The thought sends a wave of heat through you.

“Loki, come over here,” you order him. He stumbles over awkwardly, walking on his knees, and comes to a near-toppling halt at your feet, panting from the exertion, from the new position his arms are in, and from his arousal. You slip off your panties and slide down from your chair onto the floor in front of him, taking out a condom.

“I’m going to fuck you now,” you inform him, rolling it down over his cock as you speak. “Well, actually, I’m going to use you to fuck myself. I’m going to pleasure myself using your body. Making me orgasm is your only purpose, Loki, and if you come before I’m finished, you’re going to be sorry. Do you understand me?”

“Yes," he gasps, cheeks red, eyes wide, pupils dilated. “ _Yes_ , mistress.”

You nod. “Do a good job, and maybe I’ll loosen the chains on your arms.”

You lean in and kiss him possessively, pushing your tongue into his mouth and listening to him making his sound that’s halfway between a whimper and a purr; it’s your favorite. You pull away and lean back to study him as he moans and tries to pout at you. “Enjoying yourself?” you smirk at him. “This isn’t for you, remember? You’re a prince. You’ve had enough people catering to your desires. That’s all over for you now.”

He actually manages to talk back to you. “And you mean to – what? Punish me for the spoiled brat you see in me?”

You can see where he’s trying to go with this, but you decide not to play along. You love it when you’re able to surprise him, to set him off-balance. You shake your head. “ _Punishment_ implies that I’m concerned with your moral development. And that means nothing to me. My only interest is in how useful you can be.” You seize him and lower yourself down onto his cock, as slowly as you can, as he arches and writhes under you, giving a brief gasp of pleasure. “And after all…you don’t need a good character or moral fiber to have a stiff dick, do you?”

He doesn’t reply; he’s too busy desperately trying to thrust into you. “Remember what I said about coming before me,” you grunt as you grind down against him, angling yourself so that his shaft is rubbing your g-spot. He growls in wordless frustration, but stops thrusting. “That’s better. _Slowly_.”

You’ve never fucked anyone in this position before, although you always heard it felt especially good. Then again, you always heard that, or rather read it, from magazines like _Cosmo_ that you find in doctor’s office lobbies, so you always had your doubts.

But for once, _Cosmo_ was right; sitting on Loki’s lap does provide better friction, and for a little while, you give yourself over to your own pleasure, grinding against Loki’s cock as if it’s a dildo, until you come, much harder than you expected to, nearly losing your grip on Loki’s shoulders as the orgasm makes you momentarily dizzy. Apparently the hour or so that you spent teasing Loki was as much foreplay for you as it was for him.

You fall back to Earth at the sound of Loki’s voice. “Mistress – please – can I – ?”

You consider it, leaning in to whisper in his ear. “What if I said no?” you muse aloud. “What if I just left you like this? Chained up by a mere _mortal_. Reduced to _begging_ for your orgasm. And you _like_ it. My shades are still open, Loki. I wonder how many of us mortals can _see_ you right now; the man who was almost their king, brought so low, and so close to coming undone”-

Loki comes with almost a yelp, unable to hold back anymore. He sags back against the chair, breathing hard, the position of his arms limiting his breaths somewhat. You get off him, and return to your chair, wheeling it across from him and looking down at him as the blush starts to fade from his skin. “I didn’t give you permission to come, Loki.”

“Yes, Mistress,” he gasps.

“I’m going to punish you for it. Later.”

“Whatever you think best, Mistress.”

You lean back in your chair, and let yourself smile at him, for real this time. “Really, though – did you have fun at Comic Con, Loki?”

He smiles too. “Yes, I…yes. It was…” He trails off, words failing him. He’s blushing again, embarrassed. “Yes, I did.”

You think about him on Asgard – slender, intellectual, somewhat androgynous, even feminine, and submissive. Someone like him could easily be overlooked in a place like that. Overlooked - or worse. To go from that – or worse than that, you consider, thinking of his time among the Chitauri – to a place where he was celebrated, even worshipped… “I’m glad to hear that,” you tell him sincerely.


	5. How the Light Gets In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written based on this Naughtylokiconfessions prompt: http://naughtylokiconfessions.tumblr.com/post/75323335387/please-could-one-of-you-lovely-story-smiths-write-a
> 
> My information on kintsukuroi comes entirely from Wikipedia, so if I'm getting something wrong, please let me know and I'll fix it.
> 
> Another non-sexy chapter, but in fairness to me, I wasn't even really expecting this one to happen at all. It just kind of did.
> 
> The song lyrics at the end and in the title (yes, I know it's considered a fanfiction sin, at least by some, but I did the thing) are from Leonard Cohen's song "Anthem."

        “I _demand_ to know where we are going,” Loki tries again in his best _you were made to be ruled_ tone. You grin and pointedly ignore him. Instead, you think about how much better at the subway Loki has gotten since the first time you took him on it. He’s entirely used to its speed now, standing as regally as he can, despite the mostly-empty car, with one hand gripping the bar, so that his coat and hair billow out slightly behind him. You watch him smile briefly at the thrill of the train’s acceleration, and try not to think about all those posts on the internet about Loki as a poledancer. You cross your legs as inconspicuously as you can at the memory.

         Realizing that this tactic will cut no ice with you, so to speak (not that it ever has; _why does he keep trying it?),_ he apparently decides to avail himself of his charm. “ _Please_ , Mistress,” he purrs, rolling the words on his tongue. “ _Please_ tell me where we’re going.” Theatrically, he sinks to one knee before your seat, looking up at you with what he seems to think are puppy dog eyes. Unfortunately, he’s right, and besides, a part of you wants to spoil the surprise out of the sheer embarrassment of him kneeling to you in public on a random subway car. Still, you keep silent. His frustration at your teasing is sweeter than watching him try to wheedle the surprise out of you now.

         “This is our stop,” you tell him, standing carefully as the train lurches to a halt. You decide to throw him a bone. “You’re going to see where I work.”

 

         It’s a quiet evening at the museum, and technically, it’s almost closing time and they shouldn’t let you in. But even if you didn’t have an excuse about needing to check something on your office computer at the ready, you know most of the security and admissions people, and they have no qualms about letting you stay after hours on occasion.

          You wish you could show Loki the displays of cathedral art, or Buddhist statues, or your favorite: the hall of totem poles. They’re all even better after hours, the low lights and deep shadows enhancing the quiet power you can feel almost radiating from them; the adulation focused on them through the centuries, the link they provide to the people who came before you on Earth. Standing in the presence of these sacred things, in the echoing quiet of the galleries, is about as close as you’ve ever come to a religious experience of your own. As it is, Loki seems to be struck speechless, for once, at the museum, especially the beauty of the pieces and artifacts that you guide him past, even if their meanings and origins are strange to him.

          But the cathedrals, statues, and totem poles will all have to wait for another night, even if religious art could mean anything to a being who’s been worshipped as a god. Tonight, you’ve come with a special purpose. “This way,” you tell Loki, leading him to one of the galleries reserved for traveling exhibits. “It’s just in here.”

         The lights in the gallery are still lit, but they’re dim, which only causes the artifacts in the cases to glitter more iridescently. You motion Loki over to the first case. He glances at its contents dismissively, and wrinkles his nose at you. “This is but _pottery_.”

         You freely admit it. “This is a temporary exhibit from Tokyo on _kintsugi_ , or _kintsukuroi_. It’s a Japanese pottery repair technique. It allegedly started when a shogun named Ashikaga Yoshimasa sent one of his bowls back to China to be repaired after it got broken. When he got the bowl back, the repair people had put the pieces back together using these ugly metal staple things, and it got him wondering about a more aesthetically pleasing way of repairing broken pottery,” you explain happily, an art history nerd back in her element.

         “And I require a lecture on the struggle of mortals to fix their broken pottery – why?”

          “Look at them, Loki.”

         “I already _did_.”

         “ _Loki, look_.” Taken aback at the change in your tone, he rolls his eyes and bends closer to the case for a second glance.

         “See?” you point, tracing your fingers against the glass over the nearest bowl’s longest crack, which runs straight down its front like a river on a map, or a scar. He follows your gaze. “See the gold?”

         You watch his green gaze find the thin seam of gold that holds the crack shut, and he still looks rather nonplussed, but at least he’s slightly more interested. “Ah. A subtle beauty. Not immediately obvious to the casual observer, and no doubt oft passed over in favor of more opulent displays. Detectable only to one with the wit and wisdom to notice it.” He grins up at you. “I am beginning to see why you like this, Mistress.”

        You blush at the sudden realization. You hadn’t even thought of that the first time you’d seen the exhibit; you’d only thought of Loki, not yourself. “Maybe,” you say neutrally. “But I was thinking of something different.”

        “Oh yes?”

        “Yes. See, the pottery only gets repaired with these gold accents if it’s broken in the first place.” You pause. “Which means that…that even if it is damaged, and even though it seems as if it’s never going to be useful, let alone beautiful, to anyone ever again…it ends up being made even better than it was. The things that are broken end up becoming more beautiful than they ever were before.”

        You wait in silence, listening to the sounds of the museum quieting down for the evening around you. And then finally… “I see,” Loki says softly.

       “I just mean that”-

       “You just mean that all I have seen – all I have done – that all of it is now _all right?_ That it’s all come to pass for the magical purpose of making me _better?_ As if it were some sort of neat little coming of age trial, and not – and not”- he straightens up, and you can see the color draining from his face.

        You realize your mistake. “No, Loki, that’s not what I meant”-

        “Of course you did!” he snaps. “’Everything happens for a reason’! You mortals spout that one all the time. Because it’s what you need to believe, isn’t it, because the alternative is a cold, random, cruel universe, and you _cannot_ face that truth, and so you cling to such _sentimentality”-_ he swallows hard, voice breaking for a moment.

        “Perhaps you’d like me to _thank_ them,” he chokes out after a few seconds, breathing hard. “Yes, perhaps I should _thank_ them, should I, for their ridicule and their neglect and their abandonment and their _torture”-_ he doesn’t finish. He turns away from you. His shoulders are trembling slightly.

        You give him a few minutes to compose himself, and use the time to figure out what to say. The museum is silent, but now the silence feels like a void.

        “I’m sorry, Loki,” you tell him at last, softly. “I didn’t mean to tell you that everything that’s happened to you is ‘all for the best’ or anything like that. I didn’t mean to make it sound like it wasn’t horrible. Of course it’s horrible. Of course it would have been better if it had never happened to you at all. That’s the kind of thing my mother would say, and I used to hate it when she’d talk about my problems that way.

        “I just meant that…people have flaws. Sometimes, they’re born with them, and sometimes, they get them later on. Sometimes bad things happen to them, and they get…cracked. I’m just saying that having those flaws – having those cracks – doesn’t mean that people can’t be worthwhile. And just because they were hurt, doesn’t mean they can never rise again.” You take a risk and lay your hand gently on his shoulder. He doesn’t pull away. “That’s all I meant.” You wait.

        He nods at last, slowly.

 

         “Do you know something,” he remarks later, when he’s recovered a bit and the two of you are walking back toward the doors, past the dark shapes of suits of armor on horseback or keeping silent watch along the walls. You promised him brownies when you got home.

        “What?” It’s been a long time since you baked anything, even brownies from a mix. You’re pretty sure you still have a box of mix at home. Somewhere.

        “I just thought…” he pauses a moment to collect his thoughts. “On Asgard, we don’t actually _repair_ anything.”

         You frown, confused. “What, so…you just leave things _broken?”_

        “No, I mean we…we simply snap our fingers, and mutter some spell. And everything is fixed. As if it had never even been broken at all.” He looks scornful at the thought. “I suppose that way is easier.” He seems to snap out of it, and looks back over at you. “I’m sorry I shouted at you earlier.”

        You peck him on the cheek. “That’s okay.”

 

        Your apartment is just starting to fill up with the rich, chocolatey aroma, and Loki is beginning to smile again. You turn on the radio and pull him in for an awkward two-step of a slow dance (he’s way too tall for you), as Leonard Cohen’s deep voice fills the kitchen.

_“Ring the bells that still can ring_

_Forget your perfect offering_

_There is a crack, a crack, in everything_

_That’s how the light gets in…”_


End file.
